


would it kill you to breathe

by pirateygoodness



Series: if you never run (how are they going to catch you alive) [1]
Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Angry Sex, F/F, Fellowship/Doomworld Time Loop, Fingerfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 01:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pirateygoodness/pseuds/pirateygoodness
Summary: Mick takes the spear. Or, rather: he takes the spear and gives it away to the Legion of Doom. He does it on a battlefield - fittingly - and Amaya has to watch as Saraletshim.





	

Mick takes the spear. Or, rather: he takes the spear and gives it away to the Legion of Doom. He does it on a battlefield - fittingly - and Amaya has to watch as Sara _lets_ him. 

And then the bullets start flying, and everything is frantic. It’s a mad dash back to the Waverider - yet another - and Amaya’s never felt so angry, so hopeless, in her life. 

(This is a lie: she has felt exactly this angry and hopeless once before, learning about her own death and watching footage of her village in flames.) 

She feels it down to her bones, warm rage and the absence of the spear, the sudden lack of her mother’s voice, the energy of its power. Sara wasn’t wrong: it had been calling, tempting her. Being away from the spear feels like a palpable loss, and she doesn’t know if it’s missing what _she_ wanted to do or what _the spear_ wanted her to do, but either way: it didn’t happen. 

Reality’s exactly the same as it always has been. For the time being. 

Sara is silent as they run back across the battlefield of the Somme. Dimly, Amaya’s aware of her calling Jax, arranging an extraction. There’s blood on the grass, staining Amaya’s boots a deep, muddy red. Everything smells like dirt and fresh grass and gunpowder. Her ears are ringing with the sound of gunfire, and the hum of her own anger. 

They make it back to the Waverider, at least, before either of them start to fray around the edges. They stand on the bridge, and Amaya lashes out and it helps but not enough, doesn’t quite take the edge off of how she’s feeling, the simmering fury under her skin. Nate doesn’t think there’s hope for the world anymore; Amaya suddenly understands why Mick wanted to watch it burn. 

They make a plan. Rather, Rip and Sara make a plan, because they’re always the ones doing that, leading the rest of them on half-baked missions that never seem to go as they should. Nate has to do more research on how to use the spear, and the rest of the team gets thirty-five glorious minutes to regroup, before they jump back to the Vanishing Point. 

 

Amaya follows Sara down the hall, toward the corridor with their shared bunks. She’s not trying to bother her - isn’t sure she even wants to be _near_ Sara right now - but it’s an unhappy coincidence all the same. 

Sara’s walking quickly, her shoulders set. She’s got her back to Amaya, but Amaya doesn’t need to see her face to know how she’s feeling. Amaya’s seen her angry often enough now to picture the dark look on her face, recognizes the frustration in her stride. As they both round the corner, Sara’s boot catches on the edge of a bulkhead and she trips, swears under her breath. 

She’s upset. Amaya understands that - should be understanding of that. 

“Take it easy, Captain,” she says. It comes out mocking, _sharp_ , the tone of voice something Amaya barely recognizes. 

Sara inhales sharply. Her shoulders are up around her ears and Amaya can see her force them down, force her voice into calm. “That’s enough, Amaya.” 

“No, it’s _not_ ,” Amaya says. “We lost the spear.”

Sara sighs. “We’ll get it back.” 

“You don’t know that. But you know what I do know? We _failed_ today,” she snaps. It’s mean - too mean - and she can see the way that it gets under Sara’s skin. 

Sara looks like she’s been slapped, and maybe - probably - Amaya should feel bad about that. 

Sara’s hands fist at her sides, and she flexes them open with effort, as she stalks into Amaya’s personal space. They’re still wearing their nurse’s uniforms, and Amaya can feel their skirts rustle together as Sara leans in, coming so close that her foot is between Amaya’s. Amaya suddenly feels a rush of emotion, anger mingling with something more as she takes in the nearness of Sara, the way she’s leaning in. “Do you have something you’d like to say to me?” she hisses. 

“I’m pretty sure I’ve already said it, _Captain_ ,” Amaya spits back. Sara’s so near that they’re practically touching, her mouth and nose millimetres from Amaya’s own. They’re not kissing, either of them, but they’re near enough that they might as well be. 

Sara’s arms come up, and she slaps the wall behind Amaya’s head, pushing herself away. The effect is immediate, the moment between them shattering. “You need to take a minute, Amaya,” she says. She’s not looking at Amaya, she’s looking at a space behind her head, focusing intently at a space on the wall that’s not goading her into anything. “Go cool off. We time jump in a half hour.” 

Amaya stalks away. 

 

Her hands are shaking by the time she gets to her bunk, unsteady with a flurry of emotion that she can’t fully name. She kicks off her boots, tears off her kerchief, manages her tights before she has to give herself a minute. 

She doesn’t know that she’s really mad at Sara, not really. But she feels awful about Mick, like a wound she can’t stop worrying at, and everyone in her life keeps _dying_ and it feels like the only constant is Sara. Sara, presiding over it all, telling them over and over that she’s got this. 

(In Amaya’s darker moments, she can’t stop thinking about the fact that every time Sara says that, Amaya ends up getting hurt.)

She’s barefoot as she stalks down the hall to Sara’s bunk, still fuming. She doesn’t know what she plans to say, as she palms the door open and steps inside. 

Sara’s in a similar state of half-undress; her petticoat and boots and tights on the floor, ready to be sent to recycling for the Fabricator. She’s got her skirt hiked up, unstrapping a roll of knives from her thigh, and all Amaya can think about, suddenly, is her legs. How strong they are, how she knows things about what Sara keeps between them and how suddenly, she wants that. 

“If you’re here to yell at me again, just - save it,” Sara says. 

Amaya stops cold. She hears the hiss of the door behind her, clicking shut. She sees the way Sara’s mouth is drawn, the slouch of her shoulders, and feels a twist of guilt in the pit of her stomach. She looks so _tired_ , and Amaya can’t help but feel like part of that is her fault. 

The more she thinks about it, the less sure she feels about Sara deserving her anger. “Mick is gone,” is what she says. 

She’s not shouting, not hurling accusations. The sight of Sara seems to have taken the fight out of her, at least for a time. 

“I know,” Sara replies. She sounds defeated. That’s not what Amaya needs. Amaya doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t want to cry. Amaya wants to _act_ , wants to feel her blood rushing in her ears and actually reach a satisfying conclusion, whether that’s fighting, or the other thing.

“He’s gone and you were supposed to fix it,” Amaya says. There’s a little more fire to her voice, a sharp edge that seems to hit Sara like a blow. 

Sara stands straight, lets her weapons fall to the floor in a pile, next to her petticoat. When she crosses the room toward Amaya, she’s unarmed, but that doesn’t make her any less dangerous. “I was supposed to fix it? All on my own, huh?” 

Sara keeps coming toward her, and Amaya finds herself stepping backward, trying to maintain distance between them. Her back hits the wall within a few steps. Sara keeps moving, closing the space so that they’re back as they were in the cargo bay, eye to eye and nearly touching. “What about _you_?” Sara hisses. “What about my best warrior, who let herself get so seduced by a mystical object that she wanted to _rewrite reality_ -“ 

“Shut up,” Amaya hisses back. 

She shoves at Sara’s shoulders. Sara’s quicker, returns the blow and pins Amaya against the wall, one forearm pressing down across her sternum and her hips tight against Amaya’s own. 

“I’m not the one who started this,” Sara says. Her voice is low, just on the line between dangerous and something _else_ , something that Amaya’s feeling between her own legs.

Amaya flexes, shifting her hips underneath Sara’s. There’s just enough give in Sara’s hold that she can move her thigh, position it so that when she tenses the muscle, it presses at Sara’s apex. Sara does her best not to react, but she can’t suppress a small sigh, the slight shift of her hips to rock down against her. “What are you going to do about it, _Captain_?” Amaya asks. 

It’s a dare, one that Sara takes her up on. 

They don’t kiss. Not on the lips, and the collar of Amaya’s dress is too high for Sara to kiss her neck, so she doesn’t bother. She arches herself into Amaya’s body, indirect contact that makes Amaya suddenly, intimately aware of herself. She’s aware of the thrum of her heartbeat, the way that all of her anger and hurt is sublimating into this, into heat and wetness between her thighs. Sara shifts position, arranges herself so that Amaya’s leg is more fully between her own. 

When she leans forward, rising up onto her toes, her thigh presses against Amaya’s cunt. It’s four layers of skirts and then underwear and then Sara’s thigh, pressing up, but Amaya ruts against it instinctively, surprising herself with her own eagerness. 

Sara laughs, and it almost makes Amaya angry all over again. But then she hears the rustle of fabric and Sara’s tugging at her skirts, hiking them up until they’re bunched around Amaya’s waist.

Suddenly, the layers between Sara’s thigh and Amaya’s cunt are much fewer, and when Sara flexes her leg upward, Amaya cries out. She’s already slick for this, she’s sure, and her hips seem to jut out of their own accord, betraying her eagerness. 

Sara’s breath is ragged as she presses her head to Amaya’s shoulder. That arm across Amaya’s chest slowly relaxes, and Sara uses it to cup Amaya through her underwear. 

Amaya groans, bucks down into Sara’s hand, her desire suddenly overwhelming. Her cunt feels like it’s throbbing, and with every movement she can feel the way she’s slipping against herself, well-lubricated to an almost embarrassing extent. Her underwear are a barrier that feels like a hardship, the only thing separating Sara’s fingers from the places where Amaya needs to be touched. 

Sara grinds the heel of her hand upward, pressing the fabric of her panties into her clit, and Amaya whines. Sara’s breath catches in the back of her throat, and Amaya feels her start to fumble with the waistband of her panties before giving up, shoving the gusset to the side. Her fingertips slide home against Amaya’s clit and it’s _wonderful._

Sara works her up far too quickly, and within moments Amaya feels undone, half-desperate. She wants to bite down, wants to tear at Sara’s skin, but Sara’s dress is in the way and far too great an obstacle. She settles for clutching at Sara’s shoulders, nails digging in. 

Sara’s fingertips are firm against her clit, rubbing circles that Amaya feels in her whole center, everything warm and shivery as her pleasure builds. Amaya allows it, clutches Sara’s close and rides her hand through every touch. She’s still got her knee between Sara’s legs, and every time she flexes a certain way, she feels Sara rut against her, hears Sara’s groan of pleasure. It sends an answering jolt straight to her own cunt. This isn’t anything - isn’t a relationship - but Amaya isn’t immune to appreciating Sara’s pleasure. 

There’s something delicious about it, too, knowing that the act of pleasuring Amaya gets Sara feeling like _that_. Knowing that she’s not the only one who needs this, today. 

Sara’s pace quickens, and suddenly Amaya’s not on the edge of anything; she’s finishing with a groan, slippery and wet against Sara’s hand. 

Sara doesn’t linger. She steps away, businesslike, but Amaya doesn’t miss the way Sara wipes the slick onto her skirts, the way her hands are shaking just a little bit. Sara looks breathless, like this is getting her as much as it got Amaya.

Now that the edge of Amaya’s anger has dulled, she’s feeling generous. 

She shoves at Sara’s shoulders. Her touch is difficult to read, halfway between playfulness and aggression, but Sara catches on immediately. She allows herself to be backed towards the bed, allows Amaya to gently coax her onto it. 

Sara’s skirts are half-hiked by the time she lands, and it’s only a few moments of fumbling more before her underwear are on the floor, and Amaya’s in between her knees. 

Sara’s hand slides between her legs, hiking her skirts fully, exposing her cunt. Before Amaya can fully react to the sight of her, Sara’s fingertips are sliding down, disappearing into her cunt and then circling her clit. Her touch is efficient, almost businesslike, but Amaya can’t help but find it beautiful, all the same. 

She reaches out, cups Sara’s cunt, and she can feel the warmth radiating from it. 

She’s never felt power like she did when she was holding the spear, that heady rush of confidence and clear, sharp certainty that she could use it _properly_. But holding Sara’s cunt in her hand is a close second, when she parts Sara’s lips and slides two fingers inside and can see-feel-hear the way she shudders into it. She can’t quite believe the fact that Sara allows Amaya to touch her, thighs parting with something like trust.

Sara is slick and velvet-warm inside, and Amaya has to bite her own lip to keep from groaning at the feel of her. She’s eager for this, fingertips working at her clit while Amaya fucks her. There’s an odd intimacy to it, the way that Amaya can feel the rhythm of Sara touching herself, can feel Sara’s fingertips bumping against her knuckles as they work together. The feeling veers close to real tenderness, something they don’t have with each other. 

Amaya focuses on rhythm, focuses on bracing her hand with her knee so that Sara’s hips can buck against her. She learns that Sara likes force, likes when Amaya’s fingers sink deep into her with purpose, and once she learns that it’s not long before Sara’s shuddering and clenching around her hand, her orgasm overtaking her. 

Sara slouches back, lets her head fall against the pillow as she works the last shudders out. Amaya lingers until she feels Sara’s inner walls relax around her fingers, until Sara’s breathing starts to slow. 

Sara’s the one who rolls away first. She’s still flushed, still a bit breathless, as she slides off of the bed and starts to undress. “I’ve got to - I should get to the bridge, see if Nate’s found anything,” she says. 

“Right,” Amaya says. She’s still a bit dazed, mellowed from her own pleasure and the experience of touching Sara. 

“You coming?” Sara asks. Her voice is all business, as she crosses the room in her underwear and pulls out jeans, a soft sweater. 

Amaya nods. She’s still wearing her apron, her skirts, and suddenly that feels ridiculous. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”

As Sara passes, dressed and ready to head back to the bustle of the ship, Amaya grabs her wrist. She doesn’t - it’s not that she cares. It’s just that Sara looks so _tired_ , and Amaya’s starting to realize that she might not be the only one who’s not okay, after all of this. “Hey,” she says. “You - I think you can make this right. For what it’s worth.” 

She’s not sure if she really thinks that’s true. Things seem different, now that the spear isn’t so nearby, but her feelings are still a tangle under her ribs, confusing and constantly in flux. It’s hard to tell what she believes, right now. 

Sara smiles. “You don’t mean that,” she says. “But thanks.”


End file.
